


A Weekend in the Country Or, Snarls of a Summer Night

by executrix



Category: Blakes7
Genre: AU, F/M, Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isn't it rich? Isn't it queer? Losing their timing so late, in their careers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Weekend in the Country Or, Snarls of a Summer Night

The night smiles three times: first, for the young who know nothing; second, for the fools, who know too little; and third, for the old, who know too much.

1\. (Saturday Night)  
{{I should never have gone to the theater}}, Blake thought. {{Then I'd never have come to the country. If I never had come to the country, matters might have stayed...as they were}}.

"Sir?" his opponent said, raising a dueling pistol and gliding away, into position.

2\. (The Previous Tuesday)  
Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sometimes the job got to be too much for him. Looking back, he wondered if it was all worth it. Blake had to admit that, no matter how hard he had struggled for everything he had achieved, it was all really due to one man. He couldn't have done it without him.

He appreciated the aged irony like a fine single-barrel bourbon.

After the Andromedan invasion had been repelled, Humanity was saved, but at great cost. It was Blake, still convalescing from his wounds, who took the pivotal action that shaped geo-politics as they now knew it. The already tottering Federation could have been eradicated, after a mere few more years of war--but then what would have happened to the dome dwellers of Earth--dependent on technology for the very air they breathed--much less to the denizens of the Outer Planets?

At that crisis point, Blake gathered up all the various rebel forces. He made them all agree to work together and sit down at the bargaining table with the tattered remains of the forces of law and order. They somehow managed to scrape an agreement that got Star One back in operation in a few months. They drafted an ambitious plan for galaxy-wide elections. Civil war was averted, and the worst excesses of tyranny were relegated to the dustbin of history.

Blake drove so hard a bargain that, he heard, when he left Jevron the other delegates burned him in effigy.He had hopes of major office on Earth, or at the United Planets, but he'd made so many enemies that he was fobbed off with an obscure provincial governorship.

But he wasn't inclined to complain. He had no stomach any more for the heat of battle, and the ambiguous gains and irrecoverable losses that it brought in its train. The war was over, with a sort of victory for the forces of freedom, and far from being a hunted fugitive, under constant assault from every passing pursuit ship, he was a happy--if busy--and influential man.

Yes...everything he was today, he owed to Travis.

3\. (Tuesday Afternoon)  
Blake lived over the shop, if that's what you could call the private suites within the Governor's Palace.

"Oh, Roj, what a day it's been," Dayna said. "Unending drama! First we did the test-firing of the 1903Ctk mauretonium torpedo, and at first it looked like it was going to misfire, and that would have meant a major cost overrun, but it turnedout to be all right, just a problem with the switching mechanism...."

Blake smiled, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. She was so....young, so enthusiastic, everything was just so new to her. Exhaustion settled over him like a lead x-ray apron. "I'm going to have a nap," he said. "Make sure Vila wakes me by teatime, I must go through my red boxes before the meeting tomorrow."

"Can't we go out tonight?" Dayna wheedled. "I've hardly worn that wonderful necklace you bought me for our six-month anniversary. And earrings...earrings...but which earrings? The diamonds, or the modest rubies?"

"It's opening night at the Opera," Vila said. "Got a messenger today, sent you some free tickets. Royal Box. Being rich's like being an awfully good crook, innit? Never have to pay for anything."

"Would you like that?" Blake asked. Dayna bounced in reply. "I can never deny you anything," he said, kissing her forehead. {{Now, if only that went in more than one direction....}}

4\. (Tuesday Night)  
"That's a good-looking couple across there," Dayna said, handing the opera glasses to her husband.

"Who?"

"The decorative staff officer--I can see by his regimental flashes that he must be a Space Commander at Central HQ--and the distinguished older man. His protector, I suppose." The dress uniform for the reconstituted Space Command  
was an impressive midnight-blue tunic, with plenty of crimson trimming and gold rope.

"God almighty!" Blake said. Five years had taken their toll on everyone...on Blake himself, as well as the man who he hadn't seen since their parting words ("I have always trusted you...from the very beginning.") And there was Avon, smug in three thousand hand-tailored credits of DJ, slender and upright as a vain middle-aged man with a matutinal appointment with an expensive personal trainer.

Blake tore his eyes away from the disgusting spectacle of Avon being so secure in his possession of the handsome--and very tall--curly-haired young man in full dress uniform that he completely ignored him in favor of watching the stage.

Blake sat up straighter.

"If they're going to behave that way in public, they might as well just get a room,"Blake said.

Dayna gazed at him quizzically.

5\. (Tuesday Night)  
There was a champagne reception afterwards, of course, and the vizzojournalists gathered around the Governor and his trophy bride.

"Come on," Tarrant said. "Let's go and make sure that we'll be in the midnight broadcast." He looked for the camera operator to make sure his best side got into the 'cast.

{{He is a peacock}}, Avon thought. {{I keep forgetting}}.

"I've got to head back to the office for a bit," Tarrant whispered, one of his hands, slipped inside Avon's jacket, broadcasting lightning. "Monitor some transmissions from the Third Flotilla. And then why don't I meet you back here?"

"I suppose so," Avon said, his heart hammering at the combination of memories and prospect.

{{It's all so foolish. Why am I sweating?}}

6\. (Very Late Tuesday; Very Early Wednesday)  
It was a vicious circle. It was impossible to sleep at night, as Blake's memories and anxieties swirled around him. By mid-afternoon, exhaustion took over, and he had to leave his office and head upstairs to the Official Residence for a nap. The problem was that then, by midnight, he was always wide-awake again.

Even after years of being not merely legitimate but part of the Establishment, Blake still relished the ability to walk freely under the open sky. Or as much ability as he had in a heavily-scheduled routine.

Back on Earth, even if he hadn't had to worry about being arrested for a curfew violation, or a travel pass violation, or a defect in his Identifier card, he would have had to worry about gangsters protecting their turf, or poor devils who'd do anything to buy their next dose of Shadow. Here on Sarran, he didn't even have to worry about catching a cold in a sudden shower: the climate was remarkably clement and predictable. And as for human predation, the citizens didn't even lock their doors.

Somehow or other, Blake's contemplative stroll that evening took him past the Opera House, where there were still lights on in some windows, high up, at the side. An impulse he couldn't explain led him to open the Stage Door and walkupstairs to the source of the light.

"Oh, it's you," Avon said, simultaneously sounding blasé and anxious, welcoming and dismissive. By the time Blake was already sitting down, Avon found he couldn't summon up the will to dislodge him.

Avon had taken off his jacket, and the wing collar of his shirt was open, but he still wore the mulberry brocade waistcoat. The room was a little chilly despite a bright fire in the fireplace. Blake felt at a disadvantage, in the moth-eaten cardigan and old corduroy trousers he had put on for his evening constitutional.

For reasons that Blake suspected had something to do with the state of his jawline, Avon wore a tightly clipped beard stretching from ear to ear. The black hair, studded with silver, gleamed in the light of the desk lamp.

"I could say the same! But what are you doing up here? This looks like an office of some sort." Through a half-open door, Blake could just glimpse another room,with an elaborate figured wallpaper.

"An office and a pied a terre, or whatever you'd call it. I own the opera house, you see. I was just counting up the takings." Avon said. "The house was knee-deep in paper, of course, and the tenor's an extortionist, but I still did fairly well out of the evening."

"You live on Sarran? I'd no idea," Blake said.

"I don't really, I don't live anyplace in particular," Avon said. "I'm a very deluxe hop picker. My mother has a place here, which I visit occasionally, and a few of my portfolio properties are here, but I have to travel a good deal. It's the less-developed worlds that are the best market for truly innovative technology, they haven't a load of outmoded infrastructure that they cherish irrationally. So I pick a target, set up a factory or two, get some transmission picotechnology in place, and move on. I have to hand it to you, Blake," he said, shaking his head reluctantly.

{{Can it be?}} Blake wondered. {{Is he about to acknowledge, at last, that thequest to bring freedom to a tyrannized galaxy was worthwhile?}}

"There's nothing like the devastation caused by a war to leave jewels scattered about for anybody with hard cash and a bit of patience."

{{Some things never change}}, Blake thought.

"I suppose I must congratulate you on your elevation. You got some of what youwanted, which I suppose is all anyone ever does get out of life."

"As ever, that seems like a somewhat reductive view." Blake nibbled on his index finger. His ring flashed in the light.

"Oh, yes, of course, I've heard of the alteration in your domestic arrangements."

"You must meet my wife!" Blake said enthusiastically.

"If I must, I really must...no," Avon said.

"She's one of the daughters, you know, in Mellanby & Daughters. The armaments manufacturers. Lauren Chel's sister. That's how we met, she came to the Provisional Junta to lobby for some reconstruction contracts."

"Ah, yes," Avon said. "I was on Io, setting up the ClairVoyNet. The wedding coverage extended that far."

"Dayna's a delightful girl," Blake said. "So spontaneous, and unaffected! Not like us, no one who grew up on Terra in the Days of Repression could be that uninhibited. Unfortunately, still a virgin. But you can't force a flower..."

Avon laughed like a drain. "Del's quite a bit less virginal than when I met him," he said. "Which wasn't very."

"God," Blake said, tired of circling around and sparring. "It's been so long. Iwouldn't have thought that, after all we were to one another, that we could part and just go on."

"I waited for you as long as I could for you," Avon said, his voice raw. "You didn't come back. There was no word from you, except for the bare announcement that you had survived. And not a word to me."

"I couldn't very well come back immediately," Blake said. "It took a bit of time to recuperate after the battle, and then just as I began to think I might, you sold the damned thing out from under me. And just as well, because I had plenty of work to do elsewhere. But why, after all that carry-on about how much you wanted myship, did you get rid of it the moment you had it, as if it burned your fingers?"

"What in hell would I want a warship for? I thought it would be obvious to you that I was just saying that to have an excuse to stay with you instead of going someplace safer."

"Avon, in what sense is it obvious that what you said was the opposite of what you meant? When I speak, it's for the purpose of communicating something simple and straightforward."

"How very enjoyable you must find your current métier, then. Very few of us onthe Liberator had any martial vocation," Avon said. "You and Cally were the militarists. Jenna and Vila and I preferred to take the money and run, and you can't deny that it was important to regain--or gain--the good will of the System," Avon said. "Of all the aliens."

Blake winced. He knew that Cally was an exceptional human being--well, an exceptional sentient--as well as a credit to the Revolution. But it still rankled that she had been appointed to the Terran Supreme Court when he was fobbed off with this backwater.

"And it's done more good to have a whole DSV fleet available than to keep Liberator involved in meaningless little mop-up operations."

"At exorbitant lease terms," Blake said.

"And what better use of tax dollars than the public safety? I'm sure your father-in-law would agree."

"I thought that we'd put paid to The System," Blake said. "I wasn't best pleased to have to deal with them again!"

"Oh, of course they had a mirror site," Avon said. "Give them that much credit."

Avon moved abruptly to the sideboard, where there was an array of crystal decanters. "My mother would be horrified at my lack of hospitality. Would you care for a drink?"

{{Good lord, is the old bat still alive? She must be eighty if she's a day.}} "That would be very welcome." Blake sipped at the priceless cognac and stared into the flames. {{There was so much we left unfinished}} he thought. {{So much pain that we could go back and heal. What could be more magical than to be granted a second chance? Isn't that what everyone wants?}}

Avon poured himself a drink out of the decanter that happened to be closest to the front (it was raki), slammed it down in a gulp, and coughed.

Blake finished his drink and stood up. "Forgive me, Avon," he said. "To flirt with rescue, when I have no intention of being saved..."

And neither of them knew who moved toward whom (whether to take the credit or apportion blame) but at any rate, they kissed desperately, amid reservations about fidelity and practicality and early meetings and unlocked doors, and somebody's fingers reached for Blake's belt buckle, which bounced off the floor just as Tarrant bounded up the stairs.

7\. (Very Early Wednesday)

Since time immemorial, politicians, caught with their trousers down, have always reacted the same way.

"Ahem!" Blake said. "As you can see, I just called in to discuss next season's appropriations for cultural affairs with your friend here. During a collegial exchange of views, I happened to slip and trip into the hipbath, and Avon was kind enough to put my trousers in the trouser press to restore the crease. WellI'll just retrieve them now and head on home, early day tomorrow!"

"How can you slip and trip into a hipbath?" Tarrant asked after Blake's swift departure.

"You don't know Blake," Avon said.

"And I suppose you do?"

"I used to, but I haven't seen him since the Three-Day War."

"You used to know someone famous?" Tarrant said, momentarily distracted.

"Yes, of course, I lived with him for two years."

Tarrant revolved the potential of that statement, and decided that his lover couldn't have meant lived with in the sense of LIVED with. {{They haven't. God knows he needn't. Therefore it's not.}}

"If I ever thought you'd been unfaithful to me, I'd....I'd...."

"What, you'd kill me? It's been tried. Remember that you don't own me, Tarrant. In fact, I daresay that we ought to give this a bit of a rest. It's all been very good fun, but we oughtn't to make more of it than it is..."

Tarrant, who hadn't even had time to hang up his tunic, stormed out. He gave marching orders, he wasn't given them.

8\. (Wednesday Afternoon)  
"Anything interesting in the post, Vila?" Dayna asked.

"There's this one, Missus," he said. "Looks to be genuine paper...you don't see much of that, someone must be bloody rich."

"Read it to me, would you? You know what a mess your hands get in, cleaningguns."

"It's an invitation for you and Him Inside," Vila said. "Ummm....this weekend....Madame Jeanne Avon requests the pleasure of your company...."

"It's insulting!" Dayna said.

"It's engraved," Vila said. "Blake got one too. He told me he wanted to go."

"Hmmmm!" Dayna thought. "All right, if Roj wants to go, I can make it a working holiday. Pack everything I own that shoots!" she said.

Which, indeed, is just what Tarrant entered into his Personal Digital Assistant when he read the item on the Society Page.

9\. (Friday Night)  
The Blakes arrived on Friday night. Vila got the flyers parked and the luggage put away and the Secret Service men fed and watered and the chairs set up for the Saturday afternoon musicale on the lawn.

"Do you like your job, then?" Madame Jeanne asked.

"Keeps me hopping, that's for sure," Vila said.

"It isn't always easy for someone from our Milieu to settle down in an honest job."

"Wouldn't know, would I? I'm in politics."

"Mind you," she said, "Crime isn't what it used to be. There's none of the subtlety we used to show. None of our flair. What once was a splendid coup is now just a simple little heist...what once was a Vila at least, is pigs!"

Vila ducked his head modestly.

"Now, let me see," she said. "Where was I? Where was I?"

10\. (Saturday Night)  
Blake found it all very puzzling. And frustrating. Avon had appeared suddenly, disturbing Blake's tranquil life. The appearance had been, apparently, comet-like,because he was just as suddenly gone again, leaving nothing for Blake to do during his placid bucolic weekend.

Refreshed by a nice nap during the musicale and an excellent dinner with well-chosen vintages, Blake had Vila bring him a few boxes of documents, and settled down in the conservatory to work on the quarterly Education budget.

11\. (Saturday Night)  
Avon wasn't entirely sure what his intentions had been in getting his mother to invite Blake to Rising Sun (so named because Madame Jeanne claimed that between them, the architect and the decorator had Ruined her). But whatever they were, he was a day late in effectuating them, because the reactor in one of his factories on Epinal had a near-meltdown, and he couldn't even go there himself because humanoids weren't terribly welcome even at the best of times, so instead he had to go to Kyraphon-3 to set up a hololink with the Kyraphonian management team, whom the Epinaliens would talk to...

"Anything interesting happen, Judith?" he asked the butler. Her reply was as opaque as usual, but eventually he sorted out that Tarrant had appeared, uninvited, which would have completely thrown out the seating at dinner if she hadn't been able to persuade him to have a tray in the Breakfast Room instead, and furthermore that Tarrant had inhaled all of the Pol Roger 2965 and used the empty bottles for target practice in the cherry orchard. Avon was going to deduct that from his birthday present until he remembered that he had cashiered his boyfriend.

11\. (Saturday Night)  
A little while later, it occurred to him that Tarrant had probably turned up with the intention of causing trouble of some kind, so he'd better go and get that sorted.

"Have you seen Del?" Avon asked breathlessly, running into the morning room where Madame Jeanne, in the kind light of dozens of candelabra, was placidly cheating at Patience.

"Yes, dear. He ran toward the Conservatory, holding the box of dueling pistols."

"What, the antiques from the box that you keep propped up on the mantelpiece?"

She nodded.

"Oh, well, then," he said, and slowed down to a walk.

"You know, Kerry," she said, firmly planting a black three on a red five, "I rather like your earlier choice better. This one looks to be about as much use as a chocolate teapot."

Madame Jeanne sighed. And then, of course, there was that poor Anna. There had always been something furtive about her. Something suspicious. Madame Jeanne liked that in a person.

12\. (Saturday Night)  
Vila plumped up the pillows in the Chinese Chippendale Guest Suite (where Madame Jeanne had had him moved so she could put Tarrant in the Upper Servants' Quarters, where his three Vuitton steamer trunks rendered the dooruncloseable). Just as Vila swung his boots onto the silk comforter, there was a cautious tap on the door.

It was one of the parlourmaids, plump as a squab, with an enchanting space between her front teeth and frizzy titian hair.

"Mind if I stay, Mr. Restal?" she asked, perching on the side of the bed.

"Course not!" he said magnanimously. "A person should celebrate everything passing by!"

"Not married, are you? I've got some standards, y'know," Birgitte said.

"I have been, twice," Vila said. "It didn't take."

"I didn't much reckon to you when I thought you was just the Governor's man of business. But then Madame Jeanne told me you used to be a real top o' the line flash cracksman. I used to be a jewel thief, you see. In a small way of trade."

He looked surprised. "Oh, yes, everyone who works here's been Inside, Madame likes to give folk a chance."

"What, some of the girls here used to be...?"

Birgitte shook her head. "Not tarts. Madame won't have it. She's always sucking up to Bishop Vixhill, y'see, and anyway she says that as a career choice it shows a want of imagination." She half-turned, shyly. "Perhaps you'd like to unhook my corset?"

{{Blimey!}} Vila thought. {{Just when I'd stopped opening doors...}}

13\. (Saturday Night)  
Tarrant didn't know what the opposite of cradle-snatcher was--Zimmer-frame-snatcher? But he knew that he wasn't the man to just disappear quietly without a fight.

Grudgingly, Tarrant admitted to himself that it was sporting of Blake not to whistle up his tame Secret Servicemen. A few brief exchanges of words showed that Tarrant was not to be dissuaded from prosecuting an Affair of Honor. Blake solemnly accepted the dueling pistol that Tarrant pressed into his hand.

Tarrant continued pacing, counting off the steps until he could turn and fire.

At first Blake resolved to fire into the air. His opponent, he knew, would do nothing of the kind. And then, whether Blake survived or not, he'd be cashiered imprisoned, perhaps executed, a martyr to the explosive combination of outmoded ideals and insane jealousy.

{{Oh, sod this for a game of soldiers}} Blake thought, and, still clutching the dueling pistol, walked as noiselessly as he could out of the conservatory. Ten feet down the corridor, he nearly collided with Avon.

The dueling pistol clattered to the floor as they embraced.

14\. (Saturday Night)  
Dayna looked into the room assigned to Blake, but he wasn't there. At home, they usually had a cup of cocoa together at about 10 p.m. before retiring to their rooms. {{He must be in the library, stewing over those silly papers of his. The poor darling works far too hard}} she thought. She went down to the kitchen and got a Sevres pot of chocolate and a couple of cups and took the tray into the library. He wasn't there, so she drank the chocolate before it got cold and left the tray on one of the library tables. She opened one of the French windows and stepped out onto the lawn.

A handsome young man, who Dayna thought she had seen somewhere before but couldn't place, stood about twenty-five yards away, twisting something between his hands. He looked awfully upset.

Dayna went over to see. "Are you all right? What have you got there?"

"It's a rope!" Tarrant said, continuing to knot together the silken tie-backs he had wrenched from a whole wall full of French windows. "So I can do away with myself!"

Dayna's eyes swam with tears. "How can you say that? There are so many wonderful things in the world, and you're very beautiful..."

"So are you," Tarrant whispered.

"And so young...and you have a wonderful career ahead of you at HQ. Please, you mustn't hurt yourself."

Tarrant reached out for Dayna. "I'd have something to live for," he said, "If only I could hold the hand of someone like you. Someone sweet, and warm-hearted and innocent, and young...and tall..."

And, as she gazed into those ocular limpid lakes, for the first time in her life, she wanted to perform the Human Bonding Ceremony.

15\. (Saturday Night)  
"Not staying, then, luv?" Vila asked, a bit relieved.

Birgitte did up the last button on her uniform, then patted her hair more or less into place and undid a couple of the top buttons. "Got to do the breakfast trays tomorrow morning, so I'm up at half-past silly."

Vila yawned, contemplated ringing the bell to get someone to fetch him a nightcap, and then thought it would be Unfair to Organized Labor. As he pulled on his trousers to head down to the kitchens, he glanced dreamily out the window.

Just below, illuminated in the bright moonlight, was the First Lady of Sarran, being carried across the lawn with her arms thrown around the neck of Avon's crumpet. {{Right,}} Vila thought. {{I'll have to do something about this, won't I?}}

16\. (Saturday Night)  
Tarrant put Dayna down on the lawn, and for a minute they held hands and whirled in an unscheduled dance.

"But where can we go?" Dayna asked. "Do you have a flyer?" (He didn't, he hitched a ride from a friend of his who had to qualify on fluttercopters.)

"There's an outbuilding with internal combustion vehicles," Del said. "What's that called? A garbidge?" (Avon had purchased a couple of automobiles as souvenirs; they reminded him of that Lindorean matter, and now Lindor was one of his best markets. Then, when he got bored with the cars he gave them to his mother.)

There was a crank stuck in the front grille of one of the open cars. Dayna jumped into the front seat as Tarrant turned the crank.

Vila strode out from the shadows in the garage and clapped his hand on Tarrant's shoulder. "Where d'you think you're going, young fella-me-lad?"

Tarrant glared up at the substantial figure of the major domo. A Delta, he supposed, and Tarrant had heard that Deltas carry switchblades. "Unhand me," he

said. "This is the woman I love."

"Doing a bunk, then, Missus?" he asked Dayna.

"Yes, I am, Vila," she said. "I realize now that I made a mistake, and the fairest thing to do is admit that and get it sorted and move on. It does no good to try to paper over the cracks."

"Errm," Vila said. "Then I expect you'll be needing these," and handed her a pair of tickets for the Stannis Line shuttle to Freedom City. A good Chief of Staff is able to produce anything needful, at any time, on a moment's notice or less.

The engine caught, and Tarrant climbed in. "Oh, I've seen footage of these," Dayna said. "Let's see, you press down with your feet and hold the yoke...," while Tarrant looked for the autopilot.

Vila left them to it.

17\. (Early Sunday Morning)  
"That was a fiasco," Avon said, in a tone that Blake hadn't heard for many years and now realized he hadn't missed at all.

"My fault, I fear."

"I know!" Then Avon relented a little. "Me as a merry-go-round." Blake smiled. "Me as King Lear."

A little while later, Blake said, "You didn't seem terribly bothered by the very \good chance of my being killed by your...paramour."

"Don't be a fool, Blake. Do you suppose that Mum keeps loaded pistols in the house? My brothers are constantly breeding, and they bring the sticky little things here for visits."

"It was a hell of a risk, relying on his not checking," Blake said.

"Tarrant is always precipitous," Avon said. "Anyway, you always liked risks."

"I was younger then," Blake said.

"And young enough, still," Avon said, taking Blake's hand.

"We've waited a long time for this," Blake said. "Are we going to have to keep going through this sort of drama over and over again? Now that I've found you, I never want to lose you again."

"Perpetual anticipation is good for the soul," Avon said.

"But it's bad for the heart," Blake murmured against Avon's shoulder.

And the night smiled for the third time.

**Author's Note:**

> A fusion of the Sondheim operetta "A Little Night Music," which is itself an adaptation of Bergman's "Smiles of a Summer Night." B7 canon doesn't say anything about Avon's mother, although by inference he must have had one of some sort--I've written several stories in which Jean (or, more fancily here, Jeanne) Avon appears.


End file.
